


The End of the World (I Feel Fine)

by forgivenessishardforus



Series: Post-season 3 [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Headcanon, POV Bellamy Blake, POV Clarke Griffin, Post-Season/Series 03, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7950127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgivenessishardforus/pseuds/forgivenessishardforus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke walks several yards in front of him, talking with her mother—they’d chosen to walk, while some of the more injured were being shuttled back to Arkadia in the Rover. Every couple of minutes she shoots him a reassuring look over her shoulder, concerned wrinkle between her brows. And every time she does, a jolt of electricity jumps through him.</p>
<p>That was new. </p>
<p>So Octavia was gone, the world was ending, and he was in love with Clarke Griffin. <br/>__________________</p>
<p>Tumblr prompt: "Bellamy would be confronted by Raven and/or Murphy about his feelings for Clarke because the world is ending, and he admits to them his feelings. Clarke would overhear and confront him later about it"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End of the World (I Feel Fine)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from that REM song that's now stuck in my head. 
> 
> Although part of the same series as Can't Let You Go/We've All Got Monsters, this takes place in a different canonverse.

He can't stop thinking about Murphy's words. It's ridiculous, after everything that’s happened—after finding Abby hanging from the ceiling and Clarke bleeding and Ontari braindead, after Clarke had entered the City of Light and people who had been his friends had attacked the throne room, after he’d struggled for breath under Kane’s hands. After Octavia had murdered Pike and turned into someone cold and hard and unrecognizable, after she had stalked out of the room, leaving him without a second glance. After Clarke had taken him quietly to the side and told him fatalistically that the world was ending.

Maybe it’s _because_ of all of those things that Murphy’s words are at the forefront of his mind. Thinking about Octavia leaving is too painful, thinking about the end of the world is incomprehensible, so he’s left to think about—

Clarke.

Really, he was always thinking about Clarke, even if most of the time he managed to reduce it to a whisper in the back corner of his mind. Angry thoughts, worried thoughts, and more recently, thoughts like—

_You’re not the only one trying to save someone you care about_.

The words themselves were innocuous enough. And perhaps Murphy even meant them innocently; meant that of course Bellamy cares about Clarke, because everyone cares about Clarke. He could maybe believe that, except:

Except for the buzz that had fizzed along his veins to his heart when Clarke curled her hand around his;

Except for the panic that had flooded through him upon seeing Clarke standing by the throne, bleeding from two holes on her chest (Abby’s body, swaying from the rafters, had hardly caught his attention at all);

Except how Clarke’s arms around him, her chin tucked into his shoulder, was the closest he’d come to feeling calm in months;

Except for the way Murphy had held his “someone”—Emori, she’d introduced herself later—and a feeling of mixed regret, loss, and…jealousy? had tingled up his spine.

Clarke walks several yards in front of him, talking with her mother—they’d chosen to walk, while some of the more injured were being shuttled back to Arkadia in the Rover. Every couple of minutes she shoots him a reassuring look over her shoulder, concerned wrinkle between her brows. And every time she does, a jolt of electricity jumps through him.

_That_ was new.

So Octavia was gone, the world was ending, and he was in love with Clarke Griffin.

Admitting it to himself (finally, because he suspects he’s been in love with Clarke Griffin for some time now) is less terrifying than he would have thought.

Maybe it would have been scarier if there had been more time to think about what it might mean: how it might affect their relationship when it was impossible that she felt the same. He had tried to stop himself from loving her before, back when she still had Finn, back when she had left him, because he knew it could only end in heartbreak.

But now?

The world was ending, he was in love with Clarke Griffin, and he would die loving Clarke Griffin. It was a freeing thought, in a way.

Just then, she turns to look over her shoulder at him, and for a moment he thinks his thoughts must have been written all over his face; but she only gives him a small smile before facing forward again.

“I haven’t seen you guys in four months,” Murphy says casually, coming up beside him, “and you and Clarke still aren’t together? I thought for sure—”

His voice is loud, and Bellamy briefly considers hitting him, hissing at him to be quiet. But doing so would only encourage him.

“It’s not like that,” he mutters, watching Clarke’s back for any sign that she’d heard. There is none, and he relaxes slightly.

“Yeah, right,” Murphy scoffs. “I’ve seen the way you look at her, Blake. There’s _no way_ it’s not like that.”

“We’ve hardly spent any time with each other,” Bellamy protests. “I left”— _because she asked me to, because I was worth the risk—_ “and then she left”— _left me to bear the weight of a mountain alone_. He had forgiven Clarke, was no longer angry at her, but the memory of her walking away would forever leave a bitter taste in his mouth—“And it doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Doesn’t matter, because the world is ending. Doesn’t matter, because Clarke doesn’t feel the same.

“Sounds like you’re making excuses,” Murphy says. “I don’t remember you being a coward, Bellamy.”

“What do you care, anyway?” Bellamy snaps irritably, forgetting to keep his voice low. “I don’t remember _you_ wanting anything to do with me, or any of us, before.”

“Things change,” Murphy says easily, an unconscious look in Emori’s direction giving him away. “All I’m saying is, we’re all probably going to die down here sooner rather than later. If you find something that makes you happy, you should go after it.”

“Love made you wise, I see,” Bellamy mutters, and it’s possible Murphy goes a little red around the ears.

“Shut up,” he says, too loud. “I’m just saying, you should let Clarke know how you feel. If she doesn’t know already.” Bellamy glares at him, and Murphy smirks triumphantly.

He had been speaking loud on purpose, Bellamy realizes, as Murphy shoots a covert look at Clarke’s back. There’s no change in her stride, no pause in her conversation with Abby, but Bellamy tenses up all the same.

“Go away, Murphy,” he growls, and Murphy promptly drops back to walk with Emori, smirk still lingering.

He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, hoping Clarke hadn’t heard.

*

Clarke had heard.

Not all of it; Bellamy had kept his voice low, no doubt to stop her from overhearing. Murphy, though, had no such qualms.

_…You and Clarke still aren’t together…no way it’s not like that…should tell her how you feel_.

Her mother’s still talking to her, probably about the medical care many of these people are going to need once they get back to Arkadia, but the words are impossible to focus on. She nods in blind agreement, while thinking:

Bellamy _loved_ her? How could he, after all she’d done? After what she’d become? God knows, there were far more reasons for him to hate her than to love her. (She would understand it if he hated her; she hated herself. But the thought of him _loving_ her is almost impossible to comprehend.)

And she—how did she—?

Abby’s stopped talking, and is looking at her with a curious expression on her face. She’d overheard, too.

“He almost died, you know,” she says quietly, “that time he went out looking for you.”

Clarke closes her eyes, remembering painfully the tip of Roan’s spear digging into Bellamy’s chest, his life hanging in the balance because of her. She knew.

“Went staggering through the woods,” Abby continues, “bleeding out through his leg, looking for a trail that wasn’t there. He would have died, if Marcus hadn’t convinced him to come home. He wouldn’t have stopped looking until he found you, or died trying.”

There’s no recrimination in her mother’s voice, only sympathy. “He loved you then,” she finishes.

“But _how_ —” The words come out strangled, choked off.

“He sees the good in you, just as you see the good in him.” Abby pauses, before asking, “Do you…do you love him?” The words are weighted with meaning.

No. She—No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. She had only just lost Lexa, said goodbye to her for the last time twenty-four hours before. And how could she love two people at once?

But she remembered how the simple act of holding Bellamy’s hand had leached the fear out of her, how his belief had fortified her, how he’d held her up, supported her, and faced the end of the world with her.

Her love for Lexa had been like a fire that had flared up, hot and consuming, burning her from the inside before dying out. And Bellamy was like the sun on her face, bright and warm and constant, a sturdy, soothing presence. A different kind of love, no more or less valid than the other.

She stops herself from looking over her shoulder at him, barely.

Abby seems to read her thoughts on her face and smiles at her, gentle. “If what ALIE said is true,” she murmurs, “the world is ending. There’s no time to waste.”

“If the world is ending,” Clarke counters, “then what’s the point?”

“Living while we still can,” Abby says. “ _That’s_ the point. Maybe you don’t believe it, sweetheart, but you deserve happiness. Even if only for a short time.”

She nods, not necessarily in agreement but in acknowledgement, and doesn’t reply. She doesn’t know if she deserves happiness, but Bellamy—Bellamy does. And if she can give that to him—

_It’s too soon,_ part of her is screaming. _It’s too late_ , a different part warns.

_It might be the best chance you get,_ a third whispers.

And she knows: if she had to pick one person to be at her side at the end of the world, it would be Bellamy Blake. Bellamy, with his steadiness, his steadfastness, his forgiveness, his understanding. Bellamy, who found the light in her when she was sure it had gone out.

Some time later, she drops back to walk beside him, their strides easily falling in sync.

“We should talk,” she says.

Bellamy nods, looking around for people close enough to overhear. “The world is ending,” he says, voice low.

“The world is ending,” she agrees. And because her practiced words have suddenly slipped away from her, leaving her tongue dry and her mind blank, she slips her hand into his. Immediately, his warmth floods through her.

He glances at her, surprised, apprehensive, questioning, and she squeezes his hand tightly, brushing her thumb over his skin. Maybe he understands what she’s trying to say or maybe he, like her, takes comfort in the touch; he crushes her hand in his, and swallows thickly.

“The world is ending,” she repeats. “What are we going to do about it?”

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr: @forgivenessishardforus


End file.
